


and there would be no grand choirs to sing

by sanzuh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Smut, but I'm probably ignoring a lot of the most outrageous stuff I couldn't accept, jon snow depression hours, show verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28770123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanzuh/pseuds/sanzuh
Summary: Jon and Sansa fall into bed on the night of her coronation. Over the next five years, they visit each other, but Jon keeps refusing Sansa's request to come home and stay, until one time he doesn't.While Sansa gives Jon time to heal and herself time to grow into her new role, and for the both of them to find themselves again, she carries a secret that will change everything between them once it comes out.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 144
Kudos: 178
Collections: Jonsa Valentine 2021





	1. and there would be no grand choirs to sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this so I don't lose my draft. First chapter will be up tomorrow!

##  _No ballad will be written  
It will be entirely forgotten  
And if tomorrow it's all over  
At least we had it for a moment  
Oh darling things seem so unstable  
But for a moment we were able to be still_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and lyrics from _No Choir_ by Florence and the Machine
> 
> _Oh, don't you know that I have seen  
>  I have seen the fields aflame  
> But everything I ever did  
> Was just another way to scream your name_
> 
> From _South London Forever_ , also by FATM


	2. Oh, don't you know that I have seen // I have seen the fields aflame

### Winterfell, 305 AC, Winter

_Oh, don't you know that I have seen_

_I have seen the fields aflame_

_And everything I ever did_

_Was just another way to scream your name_

Sansa can barely recall the words they spoke, can't remember who moved first, but as the first rays of the watery winter sun make her eyes flutter open, Jon's body is solid in her arms, his skin warm and soft, and his hand is firmly holding hers where she's splayed it on his chest.

Looking back on last night, every smile, every errant touch, every chance meeting of gazes had led them to that moment. The wine, the dancing, and the encouraging glow of the candles and the safety of the darkness had helped as well. And when she turned back to glance up at him on that threshold between yes and no, she knew exactly what she was asking him. 

They kept dancing around the truth just a little while longer, continuing what they had been doing for a couple of years now, but when they finally took that last step, the outcome was inevitable. 

He's awake now. She can hear the change in his breathing, felt the urge in his fingers to pull away, and how they tightened around her own instead. He's awake, and he's not trying to leave, but he isn't speaking either. 

She won't break the silence, not yet. She'll allow herself just a moment of indulgence

***

Sansa is awake, and she is not moving away, but she isn't speaking either. Jon will consider it a blessing. He doesn't want this moment to end yet. 

Last night was a mistake. He can't bring himself to regret it, but he still believes he shouldn't have. He shouldn't have stayed for her coronation. He shouldn't have lingered so long at the feast. He shouldn't have danced with her, holding her so close. He shouldn't have accepted that last cup of wine. He shouldn't have offered to escort her back to her chambers when she tried to hide a yawn behind her hand.

But he had. And he had followed her over the threshold when she held the door open with a question in her eyes. Another mistake, but not a regret. He shouldn't have, because he always meant to leave, and now she must be expecting him to stay.

He knows there are things she's been meaning to ask him, offer him, but he can't accept them. And now he's given her reason to believe that he might. 

Will he ever be able to look at her face without loving her, without his heart roaring out in pain, crippling him? He would stay for her, but she’s also part of the reason why he’s leaving. He needs to do this, for himself, but he doesn’t want to be a burden to her either.

  
***

The old Sansa might have pretended, would have tried to prolong the illusion, but she's not that girl anymore. 

“You aren’t going to stay with me, are you?” she asks him without preamble. His shoulders go rigid. When he doesn't answer, she adds, "I'm not asking you to, I just need you to tell me."

He releases a long breath. “You know I can’t.”

“And _you_ know you don’t have to go back to the Wall," she counters. Why would he want to go back to the place where he was murdered?

“I can’t stay. They made me Lord Commander and I got murdered. They made me king and …” He's not ready to talk about any of that yet, and neither is she. 

“I am queen now," she reminds him, shuffling back to give him some space. Going back to Castle Black to help the Free Folk settle in the Gift won't absolve him from taking up a great responsibility. He is probably the best man for the job, but they'll find another way if he declines. She tells him as much.

He rolls away from her, and onto his back. For a while he only stares up at the canopy. “It’s not about the responsibility, it’s..." Whatever it is, he doesn't share it with her. "I can’t stay here right now.”

She won't make him stay, not if he truly doesn't wish to, but he'll need to give her more than that. “I don’t understand.”

“Winterfell used to be my home, my dream," he whispers roughly. "Now it’s just a reminder of all the mistakes I’ve made.”

 _Is that what I am to you? Just another mistake? No_ , she refuses to believe that. “It could be your home again, we can rebuild that dream.”

He remains quiet for a long time, and Sansa bites her lip as she slides a hand under her pillow, fingers digging into the mattress under it. 

“One day, perhaps," he mutters at last. "But not right now.”

***

He expected her to argue, to fight, perhaps even to cry. Her quiet acceptance surprises him and he's not quite sure how it makes him feel. She's quiet, and he's afraid to look at her face. 

She rolls toward him, onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbow and cupping her hand in her chin. The faint smile pulling at her lips unnerves him. 

"Promise you'll come and visit me," she orders him gently.

"Sansa," he sighs. She shouldn't sit around waiting for him all the time. She's better off without him. "I'm not sure there will be time. It's still winter, and I don't want to distract you."

"You'd make a welcome distraction," she answers, arching an eyebrow. "Promise me," she says more urgently, reminding him of that time she asked him to forgive her.

"All right," he says, and he can't hold back the smile that's tugging up his lips. "I promise."

"And I'll visit you," she declares. "I'll have to make the trip anyway, to make an estimate of everything you're going to need." She swings a leg over his hips, half straddling him, and half draping herself over him as she gets tangled in the sheets. She cups the side of his face and presses her lips to his jaw, working her way up to his mouth.

"What's this then?" he mumbles in between her hungry nips and his own languid pulls. 

Her lips part, leaving his for the briefest moment as she bumps her nose against his. "You're not leaving right away, are you?" 

He pulls her on top of him and cards his fingers through her hair to kiss her back properly. He doesn't deserve this, but how is he going to refuse it when she's offering it so freely?

_I_ _believe in you and in our hearts we know the truth_

_And I believe in love and the darker it gets, the more I do_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics at the end from _100 years_ by FATM


	3. words of affirmation

### Castle Black, 306 AC, Winter

__

_We're a family pulled from a flood_

_You tore the floorboards up_

_And let the river rush in_

_Not wash away, wash away_

Jon's hips stutter as he moans Sansa's name into her ear and then he pushes hard, rocking into her as he rides out his release.

"Oh fuck," he grunts, panting heavily. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Did you take the tonic?"

She kisses his shoulder and caresses the skin of his back as she hums in confirmation. She won't make that same mistake twice. 

He collapses on top of her, as there is barely enough space for them to lie side by side. He nuzzles her neck and she tightens her arms and legs around him. She used to dream about marriage and children, but for now, what she has with Jon is more than enough.

She huffs and giggles as his weight is starting to crush her. "You need a bigger bed."

"I need more men and more resources," he rumbles into her shoulder.

"Must you discuss business while we're abed?" she asks him, sighing dramatically "You're still inside me," she adds to emphasize her point.

He moves his weight off her just a tiny bit, slowly slipping out of her. He tilts his head up to offer her a lazy grin as he taps her lips with his index finger. "It's the only place I can get you to shut up and agree with anything I say."

She feigns a gasp and nips at his finger. "You afraid I won't give you what you want?"

"What I need," he corrects her. 

"You know I'll give you anything you want." She brushes a stray curl from his temple. "Or need," she adds when she sees his raised eyebrow.

"Will you? You don't want to hear my plans or calculations?"

She tries to shrug, but it's difficult while she's lying down and with him still mostly on top of her. "I'll listen if you insist on telling me, but I trust you'll use whatever I give you wisely. If it's possible, I'll grant you what you need."

"You trust me?"

Somehow she manages not to laugh at the doubtful look on his face, though their current position makes the sincerity of his question rather hilarious. "Of course I do," she tells him instead. "You've proven yourself a capable Lord Commander. I have faith in you."

Something about the intensity of his stare, the way his face lights up, the slight flush of his ears and neck makes heat rise to her own cheeks, makes her want to look away, but then he's climbing up and bracing himself over her to kiss her. 

"How long will you stay?" he asks her when they part for breath. He doesn't wait for an answer, but starts trailing kisses down her throat, to the hollow where her collarbones meet, letting his tongue dip into it. 

"Not long, only a couple of days," she answers, letting her hands roam over his arms and shoulders. "I have other duties, other places to visit before I return to Winterfell."

 _Come with me,_ she wants to beg him. _I want you there with me, I need you._ But she knows there are too many reasons why she shouldn't. 

"Perhaps I should act the aurochs during our negotiations," he mutters into the curve of her right breast, "to force you to stay longer." His mouth closes over her nipple and he groans.

"You're always as stubborn as an aurochs," she accuses him, her voice breathless. "Perhaps you should come home with me." There, now she's asked him anyway. 

He freezes and releases her nipple, but then continues kissing his way down her body.

She opens her legs wider to accommodate him, twining her fingers through his curls, and she bites her lip, but it's too late. "Winterfell is your home."

He circles his tongue around her navel. "Not anymore."

"Of course it is," she insists.

"I'm not a Stark," he reminds her as he shoulders her thighs apart. _And thank the gods that he isn't._ She wouldn't be in his bed if he was. But she's heard him say those words before, so she reaches down to cup his cheek, brushing the pad of her thumb across his bottom lip. He closes his lips over it and gives it a light suck.

"You are to me."

He lifts his head and quirks an eyebrow. "Is that right?" He kisses the inside of her thigh.

She knows that he's reminded of the first time she'd told him that, and of the fact that it can never again mean what she'd been pretending to tell him that day. When they had learned the truth about his parentage, she had tried assuring him again that he was still her brother. They had both known it was a lie, and neither of them had wanted it to be true. But to the rest of the world he was still Jon Snow, the Queen's bastard brother, and a man of the Night's Watch.

When she feels his hot breath ghosting over her lower lips, she decides to change the subject. "You know, what you're about to do is most definitely not going to shut me up."

He presses his lips to the spot right above her sensitive nub and chuckles, making her shudder before he has even started. She reaches for one of his hands, twining their fingers together, and grounds herself by tangling the fingers of her other hand through his curls.

"But you are," she continues as his tongue is swirling around her bundle of nerves, knowing he'll understand her meaning.

"You are. You are. You are," she keens as his mouth ravishes her. Even with his head buried between her thighs, she doesn't miss the doubtful shadow that shifts over his face. "I could make you one, if you wanted it."

They both know he does, he always has, but they also know he will never accept it. He's a stubborn fool, but she's in no state of mind to ponder his ridiculous reluctance to let her give him everything he's ever wanted. 

"I am a man of the Night's Watch," he slurs without pausing his ministrations, the rumble of his voice increasing the building tension of her pleasure. "What use do I have for a name?"

After that, she does shut up for a while, apart from the moans and little cries that keep falling from her lips as he brings her to the brink of her peak. "Jon," she mewls, "oh gods," as she grinds her cunt into his mouth and falls apart on his tongue. 

"Fair enough," she pants as he covers her body with his own, and she's still recovering from her climax. She doesn't mean it, but there isn't much else she can say. "But you still are to me. You always will be. Isn't that enough?"

"Aye," he confirms as he stretches her open. "That's enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from _The End of Love_ by Florence and the Machine


	4. quality time

### Winterfell, 308 AC, Winter

_But I must confess_

_I did it all for myself_

_I gathered you here_

_To hide from some vast unnameable fear_

_But the loneliness never left me_

_I always took it with me_

_But I can put it down in the pleasure of your company_

Another feast, another dance, and Jon is holding Sansa in his arms again. Wine has become too scarce to let it flow freely, but the ale is strong and sweet. And he doesn't have much need of it anyway, he could easily get drunk off staring at her face. They have reason enough to celebrate tonight. A new year has arrived, and the maesters believe Spring will soon come with it. 

As the song comes to an end, she starts leaning into his touch. It's a natural thing, a move made without conscious thought, and Jon's body is already responding to hers. He wants to let her curl into him, settle against his chest so they can both feel that relief of closeness. He'll wrap his arms around her and bury his nose in her hair, breathing in her scent. They haven't been alone yet since he arrived, and the desire for closeness is overwhelming the both of them. He wants to pull her close and pretend they're all alone, with no one else around, the only two people left in the world, but they are not, and they can't.

Unsurprisingly, Sansa is the first to pull herself together.

"Thank you for the dance, my lord," she tells him as she accepts his arm to walk the short distance to the table on the dais. 

Her words sting and leave him feeling empty in a manner he cannot quite explain. Perhaps it is the coldness of her voice, or the stiff set of her shoulders, or simply the distance she's created between them by stepping out of his embrace. 

It's vital for them to hide the truth of their relationship from the visiting southerners, and she's probably the last person who can be blamed for the circumstances that have made it so, but part of him still resents her for the ease with which she detaches herself from him, as if he's no different to her than any of the other people in the Great Hall.

"It was my pleasure," he answers perfunctorily with a curt bow of his head.

She laughs, sitting down and picking up her cup. "You used to hate it."

 _No,_ he thinks as he takes his own seat, _I just hated how all the girls wanted to dance with Robb, but barely spared me a glance._

"I don't hate it," he whispers, reaching for his tankard. "Not when I'm dancing with you."

The blue of her eyes melts into dark pools he would gladly drown in and a gentle smile softens her face before she hides it behind her cup to compose her expression. He tears his eyes away from her, lest he betray too many secrets by simply looking at her. 

When his eyes start roaming around the room, his fingers tighten around his mug. He should hold his tongue, but he can't help it. "The Dornish Prince is staring at you again."

She leans over to brace her hand on the armrest of his chair and whispers conspiratorially, "I'm aware. You know what else I noticed? That wildling woman, the blond one, is staring at _you_."

"Val?" he resists the urge to follow Sansa's eyes and find her in the crowd. She's been tenacious about expressing her interest, and the last thing he wants is to give her the wrong impression. He shrugs, his shoulder brushing hers, and says, "She might be staring at you," hoping it will surprise her into looking away from the woman. 

"You believe so?" she asks with bated breath, leaning against his arm. She might be, Jon muses, everyone has been gawking at Sansa all evening. In fact, Olyvar Yronwood Martell's eyes are still on her.

He inclines his head until his brow is almost touching her temple. "I hear the Prince of Dorne is agreeable to the possibility of forging a lasting alliance with the Northern Queen."

"Interesting you should say that," she counters, her voice amused. "I hear Val is agreeable to the idea of being stolen by you."

She's playing a dangerous game, but she must be aware of it. As soon as the words have left her mouth, she pulls away from him and sits up straight in her own chair. She takes a sip from her cup of mead and glances around the Hall. 

"It's late. I think they can carry on without me."

Instantly, and inexplicably, his mood sours. He doesn't want this evening to be over. He doesn't want her to leave him alone with all of these people. He doesn't wish to return to his room in the guest house either, where he'll be alone with his thoughts.

"Will you join me for a cup of ale in my chambers?"

Her invitation should make him happy, should calm the beast inside of him, but he wants to tell her no, has to push back the urge to lash out at her. Rage is churning inside of him, putting him on edge, and he feels as if he might punch the first person who comes near him.

"I'll be waiting for you," she whispers before she rises.

When he finds her in her bedchamber, one of her maids has already helped her out of her gown. She's sitting on a cushion on the chest at the foot of her bed, brushing out her hair.

He sinks down on the stool in front of her dressing table. "I could have helped you with that," he mutters, trying to keep the foolish resentment out of his voice. 

She laughs and puts her brush down to plait her hair for bed. When she's finished, she rises and walks toward him, reaching over him to put her brush back in its place. She cups the back of his head and presses a kiss to the top of his hair and all his bitterness melts away.

She returns to her own seat, patting the space to her right, and pours out two cups of ale from the flagon on the side table. He settles on the cushion next to her and accepts one of the cups.

They sit in silence for a while, until his cup is half empty and he surprises himself by telling her, "You know, in moments like this one, when I'm alone with you, and I don't have to think about everything that's outside these walls, I almost believe I could be happy again."

He keeps his head down after he's told her that, and when he finally looks up, her eyes are shining with tears. She shakes her head and there is a sad smile on her face as she whispers, "Oh, Jon."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from _No Choir_ by FATM


	5. acts of service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure who it was that first came up with the title of "captain of Sansa's bedchamber" for Jon, it might have been riahchan, but I loved it so much I decided to incorporate it in this story 😄

### Winterfell, 308 AC, Winter

_And it's hard to write about being happy_

_'Cause the older I get_

_I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject_

Sansa doesn't look up when Jon enters the room, she only offers him her cheek when she feels him approach. She accepts his kiss without looking up from the ledger she's reading. He moves to stand behind her, folding his arms over the back of the chair and resting his chin on her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" he asks her. 

"Just trying to recalculate a couple of expenses," she murmurs back.

His lips are on her neck then, murmuring, "It's late."

She nods. "I know," she sighs. "But the false spring has caused some serious setbacks for the North, and it's given me a lot of unexpected work. The lords are concerned."

"They'll still be concerned in the morning."

"I'll put this down in a minute," she promises, "but I have to write a short answer to two letters. And I have a meeting with Lord Glover in the morning."

"Why did you schedule that in the morning?" he wonders. "Your entire day will be ruined after an hour with Glover that early."

"An hour? I'll be lucky if I don't lose my entire morning to whatever it is he wishes to discuss," she huffs.

"True," he chuckles, leaving her to pour himself a cup of ale. From the corner of her eye, she sees him put it down after only a couple of sips to return to her side. He starts running his fingers through her hair, tucking strands behind her ear, knuckles grazing the shell of it, tracing her hair down her neck and shoulders, and pressing a kiss to her temple, and then her cheekbone.

"You're distracting me," she mutters.

"Am I?" His voice is both amused and husky. 

"If you keep distracting me, this is only going to take that much longer."

His lips move to her ear, and his hot breath tickles the sensitive skin there when he whispers, "I'll be good then." He walks away from her and starts undressing right there in her line of sight. She forces herself to look away and focus on the letter she's supposed to be writing.

She's just started her second letter when he calls her. "You ready to come to bed yet?"

She turns around to find him reclined against the pillows, arms folded behind his head and the furs pushed down to reveal the hard planes of his chest and stomach, dipped low to emphasize the narrow line of dark hair running down from his navel.

She bites her lip when she looks up to find the smirk on his face. "Soon," she answers, allowing herself another eyeful. "I'm almost done."

When she looks up again, she discovers that he has fallen asleep. She smiles and rubs her eyes, holding back a yawn. She should join him. Her candle wicks have almost run out, and the time is probably closer to dawn than to dusk. 

***

The bed is so snug and warm, and Sansa doesn't want to be awake yet, even before fully realizing that she is. She turns around, trying to find a better spot on the pillow and pulling the covers closer around her. She's blissfully close to drifting off again when she's startled awake.

When she sits up, pushing away the sheets and furs, she doesn't feel comfortable at all anymore. She's sweating and gasping for air, feeling disoriented. The light is too bright. And then it hits her. She missed her meeting with Lord Glover.

Groaning, she flops back against the pillows. _No, no, no._ She needs to get out of bed, but she's already dreading having to apologize to Glover. "Why?" she mutters to herself as she pushes her hair back from her face.

The door swings open and Jon steps into the room, closing it behind him and offering her a smile. "Good morning," he greets her. "It's almost noon."

"Why didn't you wake me up?" she complains. "Glover will be insufferable!"

"Don't worry," he answers, "he won't be."

"What do you mean?" she asks as he climbs onto the bed.

He takes her by the ankle so he can squeeze himself between her legs, hands curling around her thighs as he rest his cheek on her left knee. "I told Glover you were feeling unwell. I suggested he could discuss the matter with me or come back in the afternoon. He insisted it was too urgent to wait, so I took care of it."

"You did?" she mumbles, brushing a stray curl from his brow. "I can't say I'm very sorry about having to miss out on our meeting, but I hope he wasn't too awful."

"He was agreeable enough," he mutters back, turning his head to kiss the inside of her thigh.

Sansa hugs him closer with her legs, cupping his cheek. "What did he wish to discuss?"

He turns his head to kiss her palm. "Oh, the Hornwood again."

"That's what was so urgent it couldn't wait till the afternoon?" she sighs, sinking back into the pillows.

He moves up to rest his cheek in the space between her breasts, wrapping his arms around her waist. "You were already planning to grant the lordship to Larence Snow, weren't you?" She loves how the warm rumble of his voice permeates her body.

"He was one of the few who answered the call to take Winterfell back from the Boltons. He risked a lot to support our cause back then, and he's been loyal ever since."

Jon hums in agreement, letting one hand wander down her side to her hip. 

"I could get used to this," she tells him, stroking his hair as she drags the heel of her foot up the back of his calf. "Having you so close all the time, having someone to rely on." She would marry him if she could. In spite of the fact that she swore that she would never wed again. Despite the fact that he's forbidden from entering a marriage.

HIs hand has found the bare skin of her thigh and the only answer she's getting out of him is a faint grunt. 

"We could find a place for you. Captain of my household guard, steward," she tries carefully. Kings and queens have installed their paramours in important positions before. And he is so much more than that. He could stay by her side. He could even give her children one day, and no one would dare call them bastards. She pushes back the memories of the child they already could have had together. 

He braces himself on one arm, tracing her lips with his thumb, pulling her out of her thoughts. "Captain of your bedchamber?" he suggests, arching an eyebrow. 

She grins and heat rises to her cheeks. "Well, yes, that too, obviously."

He swallows her next words with a kiss and she lets him. He is not ready yet, and even though she wants and wants and wants, if she's perfectly honest with herself, neither is she. What they have now is enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from _No Choir_ by FATM


	6. physical touch

### Castle Black, 309 AC, still Winter

_Then it's just too much, I cannot get you close enough_

_A hundred arms, a hundred years, you can always find me here_

_And Lord, don't let me break this, let me hold it lightly_

_Give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly_

"My cheeks are burning," Sansa bemoans as they step into his chambers. "Why do I always forget how much colder it is up here?"

Jon smiles. He know the sting that affects any patch of exposed skin when stepping into the warmth after a long period of being outside here. He got used to it a long time ago, if one can truly get used to such a thing, that is. 

He reaches for her and cups the side of her face, and she leans into his touch. She takes his hand between her own to peel off his glove and brings it back up to hold it to her cheek, closing her eyes. 

He gives her another moment like that, but then he slides his arms around her and under her cloak to pull her close.

"I've missed you," he murmurs into her temple. 

As way of answer, she only burrows deeper into him, trying to get closer though it's physically impossible. 

"You cannot imagine how desperately I had missed the comfort of a tender touch when I found you," she says, resting her cheek on the furs around his neck. "A little gentleness and warmth. I feel safe and whole when you hold me."

It's much the same for him. He feels less broken like this, more like a person, and less like all the things that were desired of him, but that he could never truly be. He knows she wants him to be more to her than what he can give her right now, and she might ask him again, but she won't press the matter, and he loves her all the more for it. 

Before he can think of a way to respond to what she said, a steward arrives with a crate. The lad unpacks a clay pot wrapped up in straw and puts it on the table with some bread next to the flagon of ale and the plates that were already waiting for them. Jon takes Sansa cloak from her and puts it away with his own, and they sit down to share the modest meal. Sansa holds his hand as they eat. 

"Do you need anything else?" he asks her. "I could arrange for a bath, but it might take a while."

"No, thank you," she says with a brush of her thumb over his knuckles and the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger, holding his gaze. 

He watches her eat in silence. He's not used to her being so quiet when they reunite. Usually she has a thousand things to tell him.

"We're expecting another shipment of Myrish glass soon," he blurts out. "It's too late to be of any use right away, but we could spare the gold and it's a good investment."

"That's nice," she mutters, not looking up from her plate.

"Are you tired, Your Grace?" That makes her eyes shoot up at him. 

"A little," she admits. "But I'm afraid I'm just not in the mood to discuss shipments of Myrish glass and gold."

"Is everything all right? Are you well?" he asks, confused by her almost conceited tone. 

"Well enough," she answers, teeth grazing her bottom lip, "but I have need of you, Lord Commander."

He stands and pulls her to her feet, tugging her along to lead her to the bedroom.

She's on him before he can close the door, backing him up against it until it falls shut.

He's never seen her like this, but he's not complaining. He holds her close as she kisses him, her hands raming through his hair and up and down his neck and shoulders and chest.

"What has gotten into you?" he chuckles breathlessly when she leaves his mouth to nip at his neck.

She stills for a moment, her palms resting over his collarbones and offers him an almost shy grin.

"I've missed you," she whispers. She pulls away to start unlacing her gown.

He follows her example and begins taking off his own clothes.

When she's down to her shift and stockings, she sinks to her knees to help him out of his breeches and smallclothes.

When she wraps her soft fingers around his cock and gently kisses the tip, he stumbles back against the door. 

She tilts him up to nuzzle his balls and licks a stripe up the underside of his length.

"If you keep that up, I won't be of much use to you anymore," he warns her.

"Perhaps your mouth will do," she answers with a shrug before closing her own over the head of his cock.

She's soft and slow and gentle, and such a tease, but she knows he likes it that way. She can make it last and draw out his pleasure, but that isn't happening today.

He unravels her braid and tangles his fingers through her hair to hold her still. "Not for me. I want to get inside you."

"Hmmm," she hums around his cock before releasing him, "you're right."

He pulls her to her feet and lifts her in his arms to close the short distance to the bed, putting her down on the mattress.

"You got a bigger bed," she notes as he climbs up after her.

Before he can cover her body with his own, she's pushing him onto his back and straddling him.

"Gods, I've missed you," she repeats as she reaches between their bodies to place him at her entrance. He resists the urge to buck up and chase the hot slick promise of her cunt that's just grazing the tip of his cock.

Her eyes meet his and he nods. And then he's inside her, and her shuddering moan of relief is almost enough to unman him.

He can't imagine anything ever feeling any better than being swallowed up by her snug wet heat.

He lies back to enjoy the torturously slow slip and slide, the tight squeeze of her perfect cunt. 

Her hands find his, and she laces their fingers together.

She looks glorious on top of him, her body undulating as she gyrates her hips, the ends of her long red hair tickling his thighs as her eyes flutter closed.

He wants to trace the red flush rising on her tits and neck and face with his mouth, wants to suck on her nipples and flick his tongue against them, longs to lock her in his arms so he can thrust up into her and make her cry out, but for now he'll let her have her way and set the pace.

She's unusually quiet today. She likes to talk during the act, always encourages him to speak to her while he's inside her, but not this time.

She bends over, her hair falling all over and around his face, and he pushes it back to wrap his arms around her. Her hands cling to his shoulders, and her lips find his neck.

Her rhythm becomes more urgent and he plants his feet on the mattress to thrust up into her. She whimpers, keens and bucks her hips in time with his grunts.

He sits up with her in his arms so she can move against him.

"Let me hear you," he mutters against her throat.

She inclines her head and mewls as her fingers dig into the skin of his shoulders and she catches her lip on the stubble on his cheek before her mouth finds his.

It opens in a hungry, sloppy kiss he returns eagerly, desperately, holding her in a tight grip as they move, rock, thrust.

Her fingers tug on the hair at the nape of his neck, and she pants into his mouth, "Hold me. Say my name."

He can't hold her any tighter than he already is, but he groans, "Sansa," and a cry of his name falls from her lips.

"I've got you," he breathes, and he can feel her toppling over the edge.

Every part of her squeezes his body, holding on tightly, and then, with her cunt still fluttering from her peak, she goes slack in his arms.

He pulls her closer and kisses her cheek, her only response a weak whimper.

He flips them over and takes a moment to look at her. He still gets a thrill out of the sight of her spread out for him in his bed, and she's never looked lovelier than she does right now.

"Jon," she sighs, and he sinks back into her to chase his own release, bracing himself over her so he can see her face, still soft and rosy with pleasure, as he buries himself inside her welcoming cunt again and again. It doesn't take long before his rhythm starts to falter.

"Not inside me!" The flash of panic in her eyes is gone before he can be sure it's there. 

He pulls out just in time as waves of pleasure start pumping out his seed, and he spills it all over her belly and maidenhair.

Panting, he slumps to his side, his cheek landing between her breasts, one arm slung over her shoulder and her hair where it's fanned out on his pillow.

One hand finds his back, the other starts combing back his damp hair. 

"I think my bed is still more spacious," she murmurs, her knuckles grazing the shell of his ear.

His lips curl into a smile of their own accord. She still hasn't given up on him. She still has to try, and he loves her for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from _100 years_ by Florence and the Machine
> 
> The next chapter is almost done, but it will be the angstiest one in this story, so I don't want to post it until I've finished the last one, which still needs a lot of work, so you'll probably get the two final chapters after the week-end.


	7. giving/receiving gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I thought this chapter was finished over a week ago, but I always felt reluctant, or even afraid to post it. In fact, I kept going back to it to add and edit lines of dialogue and paragraphs of inner monologue, etc, etc
> 
> The plan was to finish the final chapter before I posted this one, but I'm afraid I won't be able to move on to that one before I let go of this chapter.

### Winterfell, 310 AC, Spring

_And I don't know anything_

_Except that green is so green_

_And there's a special kind of sadness that seems to come with spring_

_**SANSA** _

Spring has finally come, but the recent snowstorm has covered the Godswood in a blanket of white. Jon will be arriving soon, whether it be today or tomorrow, Sansa can't be sure, because of the weather, but it won't be long now, and she needs to be ready, so that is why she came here.

She's made a decision. She's going to tell him the secret she should have shared with him years ago. Most days, she doesn't even think about it at all. Sometimes she'll wake up in the middle of the night, after a disturbing dream, and she has to remind herself that it was real, that it happened, and that she was the one who did it.

She should have told him a long time ago. It's either that, or hold her tongue forever, but she needs him to know if he is to understand what she's planning on asking him. 

She should probably also tell him what she almost did the last time she visited him, that wicked, desperate plan. It was a good thing she didn't go through with it.

Ghost finds her first. It's been years since she last saw the direwolf, who nudges her shoulder with his nose when he reaches her. She stands and tries to loop her arms around his neck, getting lost in the mass of fur. When she pulls away, Jon is standing there with a tentative smile on his face, his arms hidden under his cloak, which shifts and bulges.

His smile widens into a grin. "Ah, there goes my surprise, but I reckon she's excited to meet you." He folds his cloak back to reveal a ball of pale grey fur trying to wiggle out of the crook of his elbow. He closes the distance between them, standing up on his toes to press his lips to her temple before handing the creature over to her.

She accepts it without question, looking down to find a pair of yellow eyes staring up at her. A sharp pang pierces her chest, but then the direwolf puppy tries to climb up her shoulder to lick her cheek, and she hugs it closer and giggles. 

"Ghost made a friend beyond the Wall," Jon clarifies, and there's a soft smile on his face when she glances up at him. 

***

"There's something I need to tell you." She's a coward. She has let the rest of the day and a very pleasant night pass without revealing her secret. Jon looks up from his bowl of porridge, but still, she doesn't say anything. 

He lowers his eyes, scooping up another spoonful and bringing it to his mouth. When he swallows, he puts the spoon down and sits back, raising an eyebrow as he looks at her. 

"I think it happened that very first night," she starts. After that night it took him a fortnight of planning, preparing and making arrangements before he left to lead the Night's Watch and the Free Folk into a new era. And it took her another fortnight to realize that her moonblood hadn't come. 

There was joy, but fear as well, too much fear. She'd only been queen for a moon's turn. She wasn't ready to become a mother as well. She wanted it, all the more so because Jon was the father, but she couldn't. She couldn't raise a child all by herself with a kingdom to rebuild and a heart that still needed healing after all its years of suffering. 

So she went to the maester and asked for tansy and mint and wormwood, a spoon of honey and a drop of pennyroyal.

"I wasn't ready," she repeats, unable to meet his eyes. "I killed our babe, Jon."

His silence is suffocating, and when he finally speaks, his voice is strained and rough. "You should have told me."

"You were still on the road, you had the only ravens trained to fly between Winterfell and Castle Black with you. A messenger would have taken too long." All plausible excuses, but excuses all the same. Finally, she looks at him. "You were clear. You weren't going to stay. And there was no time to consult you."

He purses his lips and his fist clenches around his cup at the accusation, at her detached choice of words. "Still, you should have told me."

"It was done." She tries to shrug.

He sighs, rubs his forehead with a hand. "Sansa..."

"I'm sorry," she mutters. "You had the right to know. I didn't want to add to your burdens."

He leaps to his feet, his chair almost toppling back. "Of course I had the fucking right to know!" he explodes. "But _you_ shouldn't have had to go through that alone!"

 _You weren't around anyway,_ she wants to scream at him, but that's not what she needs this conversation to be about. She can't even explain to herself why she finally decided to tell him after all these years, why she felt compelled to do so when it's really something else she wants to ask him. Is she playing his game now, is she wrecking her own wishes? Or is she simply trying to alleviate the guilt she's been carrying for all these years?

She wants to go to him and ask him to hold her, but she isn't sure he would, not right now. 

"Would you have stayed?" she asks, _if I had told you?_ she wants to ask, but instead she says, "If I had decided to keep it?"

Another long silence. "You deserve the truth, but the truth is that I'm not certain if I would have." He wants to say yes, she can see it. And she wants him to, though she doesn't know what it would mean if he had been willing to stay for a babe she killed.

"Perhaps," he adds after a while. "That's the best I can give you."

Perhaps can be enough. It may be for the best. They'll never know anyway. But now that he's answered that question, she can ask him what she's truly been wanting to ask him. He surprises her by walking around the table and tugging her to her feet and into his arms.

She wants to let her tears flow, but she can't. Not today, not if she is to ask him what she wants to ask him.

"I think I'm ready now," she murmurs into his neck. 

He pulls back to look at her, confusion written on his face.

She takes a deep breath. "I'd like to have a babe. Winterfell needs an heir, and I've always wanted children. I think I'm ready now."

He releases her and returns to his chair, rubbing his beard before he meets her eyes. "So this is goodbye then?"

That's the last answer she expected of him, one she didn't even expect at all. "What?" She walks over to reach for his hand, but he pulls it away. "No, of course not."

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging up his lips. "Even as Queen, I don't think you'll be able to find a husband who'll agree to you keeping me around as your paramour." He spits out the last word. "And I don't think I could do it."

"A husband?" she utters, baffled.

He looks at her as if he's wondering whether she's lost her wits. "Well, how else were you planning to get children?"

She can't help but laugh. "With you, obviously!"

"Sansa," he says gently, "you remember the conditions." He reaches for his cup and drains it. "I'm not allowed to wed." Though he didn't swear any vows when he went back to Castle Black, it was agreed upon by those who knew that there couldn't be any children carrying his true name. She wouldn't allow that anyway. Their children would be Starks, and they wouldn't break the conditions.

"I'd prefer not to wed, not even if it's you," she informs him. 

"Sansa!" The utter shock on his face surprises her. She's told him several times she will never marry again.

"The Mormont women don't take husbands either. People say they are skinchangers who find their mates in the woods, and that their children are fathered by bears."

"You don't believe that, do you?" he huffs.

"Of course not." She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "But it's a good story. My children will be Starks, and if anyone asks who their father was, I'll them it was a wolf."

He barks out a laugh, and she reaches for him again, putting a hand on his shoulder this time. "I know it's a lot to ask from you. Take your time to think it through, please?"

He covers her hand with his own for a brief moment, but he doesn't look at her again. She walks away to leave him alone in the room. 

* * *

  
  


_**JON** _

It has been a sennight since their conversation, and Jon has spent the last three days in the Wolfswood with Ghost. He knows Sansa must have been worried about him. It must be torture for her not to know where he is or when he'll return, if she even understands why he fled in the first place. But he needed the time away.

Even now that he's returned to Winterfell, he hasn't made up his mind yet. He only came back to prevent her from sending out a search party for him. 

She killed his babe, her words, not his. What does it mean? He should have been there for her, but he wasn't. She didn't even tell him though. What does it mean?

He knows what he wants. He has for years, but he wasn't ready, and there was so much holding him back. He only needs to remind himself of what happened whenever life offered him a good thing and he chose to accept it; for that immense fear to overwhelm him again. 

Life keeps punishing him, and he isn't sure what for, but he doesn't want to go through it again. He doesn't want that for her. The short pain will be better for the both of them.

But he wants and wants and wants. It's a hunger deep inside him, howling like the wolf trotting next to him. He's afraid what might happen if he allows it to burst free.

Once, a thousand lifetimes ago, he had sworn an oath that he would never father a bastard, but he has not made one vow that he hasn't broken again at some point, so would one more make that much of a difference? It was inspired by a lie anyway, a lie that has shaped his entire life, but a lie nonetheless.

By the time he bursts through the door of her solar, fortunately finding her alone, he is not sure what he's going to tell her. From the way she tilts her chin up when she turns to look at him, he can tell that she's bracing herself. 

"I'll stay," he blurts out. "I'll do it and I'll stay."

She stares at him, and her only visible responsible is a slight trembling of her bottom lip. It's not the reaction he was expecting. She reaches for an unopened letter, removing the seal and rolling out the scroll. Her eyes are on the parchment, but they are not moving. 

He strides over to the table, his hands clutching the back of the chair opposite her. His nostrils flare as she continues to stare at the scroll in her hands. He wants to reach out and rip it away. 

Finally, she looks up at him, and her eyes are icy blue. "I've changed my mind," she says flatly. "Perhaps I should get married after all."

"What?" he huffs. "You changed your mind?!" He wets his lips and jerks away from her, pacing the stretch of floor between the table and the door before turning back to her. "Was this a trick?" he spits out.

She shrugs. "I suppose you could say it was a test. Your actions and words have made it clear how you truly feel about it."

He grips the chair again, his knuckles white. "If this is about me leaving... What you told me, what you asked of me, it was a lot to take in."

She nods. "I know. It's not just that. It's everything."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you see it, Jon?" She rises to her feet. "After all these years, you won't stay for me. But you would for a babe that doesn't even exist yet."

He takes a step back. "Sansa..." He shakes his head. "That's not... it's not like that!"

"But it is." She crosses her arms over her chest. "I've felt so alone, Jon. I need to know that if you stay, it will change things. I don't want to feel alone with you here." Her teeth graze her bottom lip and she takes a shuddering breath. 

"There's something else I need to tell you," her voice is coming out through her nose. "I almost did something really foolish."

He looks up at her, suddenly curious, but also a bit apprehensive. She's hugging herself, rubbing her own arms. 

"The last time I came to Castle Black... I was planning... I wanted to try... But I changed my mind."

Her words are vague, but it doesn't take him long to put the pieces together. He asked her about that flash of panic he'd seen in her eyes, the way she'd begged him not to spill inside her.

"You didn't forget to take your moontea." He wanted to make it sound like a question, but there is no need.

She bites her lip and nods. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "It was horrible of me to even consider it."

"It was a horrible idea," he agrees, though he knows that is not what she meant. It's a good thing she changed her mind. He would have been furious if she'd gone through with it. But part of him might have been glad. 

"I'm sorry, Jon," she says again. "I was afraid you might never be ready." She doesn't need to explain. He's afraid she might be right.

"But it wouldn't have been enough. And it wasn't fair to you." When has anything ever been fair? But it's a good thing she changed her mind. He doesn't think she would have done it anyway. Necessity has made her a practical woman, but he doesn't believe she could be that callous. 

He can only nod to indicate he's heard her, wouldn't know what to say right now. Is there too much standing between them, even after all these years? If there is, isn't it because he's allowed it to stay there? Isn't it because of him that she's lived alone with these secrets?

It is Sansa who breaks the silence again. "I meant everything I said. I want you to be the father of my children, and I want you to stay." She reaches up to wipe at her eyes. "But not like this. I would prefer for us to spend some time together here, find our balance, make this place feel like home for you again before we take that next step."

And then he sees it. It's that old dream of hers, to rebuild Winterfell and her family, and she's desperately trying to make him fit into it. She wants him to choose her, but she doesn't realize that he always has, every single time. It's too much. Her confessions, what she's asking of him. He thought he could do it. He wanted to give her what she wanted. But he can't. 

"No, you were right, " he tells her, keeping his eyes on the dark wood of the table. "You should find yourself a husband who can give you children. Don't worry about me. I won't be bothering you anymore." He can't look at her. He'll fall apart. He forces himself to turn away from her.

"Goodbye, Sansa."


End file.
